Could It Be Our Boy's Done Somethin' Rash?
by nynine
Summary: Peter fears that Neal is the suspect in a murder.


**Title: **Could It Be Our Boy's Done Somethin' Rash?

**Author:** nynine  
><strong>Rating:<strong> nc-17

**Fandom: **White Collar  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey

**Genre: **Fic  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>about 2000

**Summary: **Peter fears that Neal is the suspect in a murder.

**Disclaimer**: White Collar and its characters are the property of Jeff Eastin and the USA Network. I do not intend copyright infringement. Fanfiction may be the sincerest form of flattery, if that counts.

The title of this fic is from "Mack the Knife," by Marc Blitzstein and Bertolt Brecht, as sung by Bobby Darin. The story takes place in Season 1 not long after the events of "Book of Hours." Peter is still making sure he knows Neal as well as he thinks he does.

**Could It Be Our Boy's Done Somethin' Rash?**

As soon as Neal passed the doorway of the White Collar Division that Monday morning, his eyes went to Peter's office. He'd actually made it to work a few minutes early, using his own will power, and he hoped to call that to his friend's attention by giving him a friendly wave and a smile.

Unfortunately, Peter was occupied with a visitor. A closer look showed him to be Agent Ruiz from Organized Crime.

"What's he doing here?" Neal murmured to Jones, taking off his hat.

"Dunno, unless it's about the killing early yesterday. Sammy the Coke got stabbed."

"A hit?"

Jones shrugged. "Who knows? Could be. Probably was. They found him in the river."

Neal made a face at the thought. Just then, noise from Peter's office caused both Neal and Jones to look up.

"Uh-oh," Jones muttered.

"Yeah—Peter looks mad." His friend had just come around the corner of his desk, his fists curling. Ruiz clenched his in response, jerked his chin up into Peter's face, snarled something, slid out the door, and took the steps down two at a time. He didn't pause when he saw Neal, seeming satisfied to cast him a black look and another snarl.

"Well!" Neal breathed, miffed. "I never. See if I invite him to my two-nights-before-the-night-before-Christmas party!"

Peter clipped out, "Neal!" and Neal looked up to see that he was being summoned.

"Uh-oh," Jones muttered again.

Peter had his hands on his hips, tapping cloth with the first finger of his left hand, and he was frowning. When Neal smiled, the glare intensified. Not good.

"You ever heard of Sammy Colafranceschi, Neal?"

Neal settled himself in his chair, the one on the wrong side of Peter's desk, and tried to preserve the smile. It would at least be good practice to see what he could do. "Sammy who?"

"Colafranceschi."

Neal shook his head. "Nope. Sorry. Sammy Davis, Jr., yes, Sammy Kay, yes, our Uncle Sam in an expansive mood, yes. Sammy the Seal, positively. But not Sammy Whatsisname."

Peter's teeth were clamped from the strain of not interrupting. "Colafranceschi."

"He owns a bottling company, right?"

"Neal, cut the crap! I don't have the patience for this!"

If Peter had said he didn't have the time, Neal would have become immediately serious. But all Peter meant, in his opinion, was that Ruiz had put him in a bad mood. "Is this conversation being recorded?" Neal tilted his head twenty degrees right of center. That didn't get any better response than the smile, but Neal wasn't discouraged.

"It can be if you want it to be."

"No, that's okay. It's hard to prove emotional abuse, anyway." Peter did not smile. Neal sighed and relaxed, looking at him with resigned innocence. "Yeah, sure. Sammy the Coke. I've heard of him. Family guy."

"Uh-huh. Lots of kin. When's the last time you saw him, Neal?"

"Peter, please don't interrogate me that way. It makes me feel like worms are moving around on my skin."

Peter stared at him and raised his eyebrows. "Should I comment?"

"Well, it does."

"You probably have the right to be questioned in the presence of your attorney."

Neal thought and then moved one hand. "Never mind. He's on vacation."

"Should I let the people on the floor know that you'd like to borrow some worm spray for personal use?"

"Uh, no. Thanks."

Peter sighed. "Agent Ruiz just informed me that a man meeting your description played poker with Sammy and some of his boys Saturday night. He called himself Nicky Costello and had money in various places on his person. It was you, wasn't it?"

Neal spread his hands. "Well if you knew that, why did you go through all that rigmarole of asking me if I knew him and stuff?"

"You know very well why I—" Peter's face was red. He paused to take a deliberate, deep breath. Neal glanced at his watch and felt pleased. He had shaved almost a minute from his previous time.

"Dammit, Neal, the man's dead! He was found floating face down in the Hudson this morn—oh, shut up! This morning, stabbed twenty-seven times, and his throat was slit! Now laugh!"

Neal _was_ laughing. He couldn't help it.

"_Peter!_" he gasped. "I didn't kill him! You know I didn't!"

"Tell!"

"'Kay. All right. Saturday night early I was in a lounge, Dwyer's, and I got to talking to this guy, and he invited me into a poker game. Said they were two guys short because these guys were brothers and there was a death in the family." Peter muttered something that Neal didn't try to catch. "So I went."

"Where."

"This guy's penthouse. In the Fleming. It's within my radius," he added defensively.

"But not within your budget, not by a long shot. At least not the budget I know about."

Neal shifted his eyes to the window. There might have been birds outside.

"So you went there. Unbelievable."

"The guy who invited me didn't really look like a thug, Peter!"

"And of course you couldn't make up a reason for leaving when you saw the guys who did. You, Neal Caffrey, were rendered totally speechless."

"You always blame me for everything. What did I do wrong? It was Saturday night, I thought I deserved a little relaxation—"

"Trouble, you mean. So did you win? "

"Well . . . ."

"Neal!" Peter turned a complete circle, his left hand plastered to the back of his neck. Neal winced, thinking the agent might catch sight of the items on his desk and throw something. Then he remembered that this was, after all, Peter Burke. He didn't throw things. Not unless he decided to find out how much noise his C.I. would make going through a glass wall.

Peter turned back, holding out his hands for an answer. "Yeah, I won," Neal admitted in a small voice. "Only they made me give it all back."

"They—"

Neal heaved a sigh. "I didn't know what I was getting into, Peter!"

The interrogator was back. "Just what did you get into?"

"That's what I'm telling you! Around two in the morning, one of the guys sort of accused me of cheating, and then Sammy took it up, and I said, Okay, here, if that's the way it is, if that's how you feel about it, take the money back, it isn't worth the hassle, it was great fun playing you guys, no hard feelings, huh, good morning all. And then I left."

"Just like that. Sammy the Coke accused you of cheating at cards and you just flashed a smile and walked out."

"Yeah."

Peter was shaking his head and pacing, his lips tight.

"Neal—"

"You're going to be mad at me again, aren't you?"

"Dammit to hell, I'm already mad at you! As if you don't know it! Tell me the truth! What happened?"

"Well, I—might have kind of dropped my badge—"

"You don't have a—oh. The one out of the cereal box. No. No. Not—Neal?"

"They scattered."

"You accidentally dropped your—_not-badge_—and just like that, they scattered."

"Well, it was probably an illegal game, and I may have mentioned—"

"Backup."

"Can I have some water?"

"_Hell_ no."

For long seconds Peter glared at Neal, and Neal blinked back at him. Neal was feeling more miserable by the moment. Teasing Peter had been fun, of course, but he was beginning to see that Peter was really worried. Surely he didn't think Neal did it? Stabbed somebody? Surely not. Neal fidgeted. Still, there was always the chance that evidence could point the wrong way, that a guy could get a bad break. Even he could. He guessed.

Peter tapped the surface of his desk with one finger until Neal's eyes flicked to his face and back to his tapping. "Please don't do that."

"You're not telling me everything."

"Peter—"

"Neal."

Neal sighed. "The guy at the bar took me to a table to meet Sammy first, before we went to the penthouse. He wanted references and some insurance. I told him I don't gamble much, but I gave him some character references and another name or two that seemed to satisfy him."

Peter's lips shaped the words "character references."

"One of his guys made a couple of calls, Sammy told me the terms of the game, a one-time thing and all, and that was it. If it helps any, I wasn't even sure that's who he was until the dealer called him Sammy."

"And he didn't look like a thug."

"Peter, I know it was the wrong thing to do, but at the time it was really tempting! I hadn't had the chance to play high-stakes poker for years! And I had every intention of staying smart, watching out for myself. He said they'd be very grateful if I'd join them."

"Oh, I'll just bet he did. And I'll just bet you believed him. What did he say when you and your buddy tossed him in the river?"

Neal sat perfectly still, his eyes on his friend. Neither of them moved. After a minute Neal said, "Thank you for the fish?"

Peter did an outraged double-take.

"_Sammy the Seal_. You know. '"Thank you for the fish,' said—'"

"_Never mind!"_

Neal watched the agent fume and pace. He used the time to reassess his own position. Things couldn't be as bad as Peter first seemed to think. After all, he was Neal Caffrey. There was always more than one way in, and always at least one way out.

Minutes passed before Peter said, "Do you have any idea how we can prove you didn't murder him?"

"Seriously?"

"Dead."

Neal moved and licked his lips. "Well, people know I don't like guns. Tell them I don't like knives either? The kind of knives you stick in people, I mean. A good set of chef's knives, now that's a totally different story."

"Hilarious. Neal, I don't want to see you sent up for murder."

"I know, Peter. Neither do I, believe me." He stood and moved a step toward the door, stretching unobtrusively. "What was the time of death?''

"They think between four and eight Saturday morning. Why?"

"I have an alibi, as it happens. "

The sudden hope in Peter's face made Neal ashamed that he had been such a pest. "Share."

"You know I said they all scattered? Wait, wait. They did. All the guys did. But there were girls, too. Ladies. Women."

"Females, Neal. Gun molls. I get it." Peter kneaded the tense muscles in the back of his neck. He added something under his breath that Neal couldn't hear.

"Do I want to—"

"No."

"Okay, I already know what you think of me, and it isn't true. I wasn't flirting."

"Were you breathing?"

Neal sighed. "There were three of the girls. We left the penthouse a few minutes after two and went to a couple of bars and then went to Cecily's place and listened to music and stuff. We really weren't drinking much. The girls' names were Marsha, Cecily, and Alexa, and we were all together and all awake until well past ten in the morning."

"Last names?"

"I know what they told me."

"And you could describe them, maybe draw them?"

In fact, not much had happened in Cecily's apartment beyond chat, drinks, delight expressed in the gift of three tiny gem-encrusted compacts, and tireless communal admiration. But Neal couldn't resist. He took a long, unstudied step to put himself closer to the door, met Peter's hopeful look, and let his own eyes flood with deviltry an instant before he produced his best, most blinding grin. "_Oh_, yeah."


End file.
